


Too Much Beautiful

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:38:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(GDI I hate titles...)<br/>Greg's got time off (probably not for good behaviour) and so Mycroft does this to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheffiesharpe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/gifts).



It was a beautiful crisp morning. Greg Lestrade had not only the day off, but nine more off after it. He was out in the beautiful countryside outside of London, and had rediscovered how much he loved mornings, when they weren’t filled with bodies, thefts, violence, unanswered questions, gritty eyes, too much coffee, and not enough hot water. The most beautiful part of his day, in fact, had started in an oversized shower room with the long, lean, pale, and freckled body of his beautiful partner.

            That beautiful partner, however, was now looking down at him from four feet above him, and frowning.

            “I thought you hated exercise,” Greg said, knowing he had already lost.

            “This is transport,” Mycroft said, his face tightening into that vinegar frown at the mere mention of exercise.

            Mycroft was far more conscientious with his body than Greg was, to be fair. Greg cycled occasionally, but mostly let his job take care of his fitness. He could still run, and hold his own in a brawl. But he didn’t set time aside to work on his stamina, or isolate a group of muscles, or put in time on the punching bags at the gym. He ate when he had time, and sometimes the food would be green and leafy.

            But he’d learned how to ride when he was younger. Much, much younger. Since then, he’d sat on one of the Met’s, when a mate had coaxed him into trying it out. It had been no thrill, and struck him as a young man’s game.

            Mycroft broke his frozen reverie with a sigh. “Climb the stairs, Greg.”

            Greg turned away, his face clenching and crumpling as he did as he was told.

            “Gather the reins in your left hand, hold the end in your right. Left at the front of the saddle, right hand at the back. Lean on the saddle, left foot in the stirrup, lean forward slightly and swing your right leg over.”

            And in a daze, Greg was mounted. He stared down at the ground, which seemed miles away.

            “Look at me,” Mycroft said sharply.

            Greg jerked his eyes up.

            “The ground is soft. But the only difference that is going to make is to your horse’s hooves. Get the balls of your feet into your stirrups, and keep your heels down. Marquis is not prone to bolting, and will take good care of you.”

            “So what am I supposed to do?”

            “Separate your reins, thread them through your hands like this.” Mycroft raised his own, showing how the extra hung across his little fingers. “We won’t go faster than you’re comfortable with. Just touch his side with your heels.”

            “What if he bolts?”

            “The command for bolting is entirely different,” Mycroft assured him. He swung his own horse around so he was beside Greg, facing forward. “Watch my feet.” He twitched his heels towards his horse’s sides, and walked ahead. “Notice how slow this bolting is.”

            “What if mine’s faster?” Greg said loudly.

            “Can’t hear you,” Mycroft called back. He didn’t slow.

            Greg grit his teeth, and turned his heels in. He had to fight off the image of Judy Garland clicking the heels of her red sequined shoes together, but then his horse was moving, plodding slowly ahead behind Mycroft’s. He swayed off balance for a moment, caught off guard when the horse had actually moved. “Hey! It worked.”

            Mycroft glanced back, then stopped his mount and twisted in the saddle to watch as Greg caught up. “Good! Excellent. Just relax. All you need do is sit there.”

            “Can I relax my feet?”

            “No, keep your heels down. And yes, hold onto the reins. You do have some say in where you go, and if you want to stop.”

            “That seems like the first thing I should learn, even before the walking.”

            “Grab with your calves, tighten your stomach and pull back _gently_.”

            Greg did so, and his horse stopped, leaving him beside Mycroft. “Fuck! You weren’t kidding when you said it was well trained.”

            “He.”

            “Nah. Seems unfair to call a gelding a ‘he’.”

            Mycroft made a sour face at him, but his eyes twinkled. “Shall we?”

            This time when his horse moved on command, Greg was relaxed enough to smile. “I probably shouldn’t get too cocky, should I?”

            “Relax, Gregory. This is meant to be enjoyable.”

            “I know, I know.”

            They rode in silence for a moment. “Thank you for coming.”

            Greg glanced aside. “I was asked.”

            “You could have said—”

            “No I couldn’t,” Greg cut him off. “It’s hell saying no to you, and you know it.”

            Mycroft was silent until Greg looked over, finding him staring straight ahead between his horse’s ears. The tan leggings fit his long legs gloriously tightly, the suede on the inside of his legs making Greg envious of the saddle, and depressed that he was exactly that clichéd. The knee-high black boots didn’t hurt, either.

            “I thought you would enjoy it,” Mycroft said.

            Greg frowned, trying to remember what he’d said. “Oh, come on,” he sighed. “I don’t mind you always being right about things I’d enjoy.”

            From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft look down, then over at him, then back up. “I don’t mean to order you around.”

            “Your mum’s the only one who’s ever called you Mike, yeah?”

            Mycroft’s face snapped around toward him, and his horse shifted to the side.

            “No, no, I swear I won’t!”

            “Thank you. Sherlock tried, briefly. But, well, with his name, it didn’t last long.”

            Greg thought. “Oh, God. Yeah.” He laughed briefly.

            Mycroft shot him a grim little devious smile. “There are ways and ways.”

            “Far kinder than I’d be if I’d… You know John told me about it.”

            “Hm?”

            “That…at their flat. Sorry, Sherlock’s flat.”

            “Ah.”

            Mycroft’s horse moved away again, jigging sideways, and Greg clamped his legs around his own horse, which stopped obediently. Mycroft gave his horse more rein, then brought it around in an impossibly tight circle, glancing back at Greg. “Come on.”

            Greg nudged forward again. “I’m not sure if I’m getting the hang of this or not.”

            Mycroft sighed audibly. “You’re doing fine. Horses are very sensitive to their riders’ moods. As you may have noticed.”

            “I kinda thought so.”

            “I am not joking when I say it’s a difficult relationship.”

            “You don’t have to explain to me. I’ve seen it. And really, if I ever see him…”

            “You will stay out of it,” Mycroft snapped, then sighed as his horse twitched again. “I’m sorry. But it would be kinder to keep well away. No good comes of meddling in family battles.”

            “I won’t bring it up and I won’t pick the fight, but I don’t know if I can stand by if I see something like that.”

            “Then I shall have to make sure you don’t.”

            Greg sighed, knowing there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the subject. “How sore am I going to be after this?” he asked instead.

            Mycroft looked over and watched him for a long moment. Greg glanced at him several times, but couldn’t feel comfortable looking to one side when he felt he should be “keeping his eyes on the road.” He knew Mycroft was gathering information for a thorough answer.

            “Your thighs might be a bit tired, but not too bad. Your back and shoulders will be the worst if you don’t relax a bit more.”

            “So the seams on my jeans aren’t going to—”

            “They won’t chafe, no,” Mycroft said, his face easing into a smile. “You’re dressed perfectly well. How are the boots?”

            Greg leaned aside to look at them. They were nothing like motorcycle boots, and he wasn’t sure what difference they made, but Mycroft had seemed rather sure. “They fit okay, yeah. I dunno what else I’m getting out of them.”

            “They’ll give you a better feel for your horse.”

            Greg looked over at Mycroft. “And you? You’re not cold?”

            He almost never saw Mycroft without a jacket. And when he did, it was absolutely always indoors. This morning, however, he’d had a tweed jacket on when Greg had met him at the stable. He’d handed Greg the reins for Marquis, and when Mycroft followed him out with his enormous chestnut, Greg had been shocked to see him without his jacket. Here he was in daylight, white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, waistcoat and tie intact. His pocketwatch chain hung across his waist as always, the tan tweed of the waistcoat contrasting with the vivid lavender silk across his back. Once again, Greg was mesmerised by the altered shape of him, the broadening of his shoulders, the outlining of his arms by the bright white of his shirtsleeves. He’d been mildly disappointed by the tie, as he’d been hoping for something more exotic like an ascot or cravat, but the pale yellow had a stripe that matched the silk on his back, and Greg was reminded of how very inflexible his lover was. He would never be anything other than what he was. Even with the crop in his hand and the ridiculously thin riding gloves that left the backs of his hands all but bare, he was no different from the man who wore three-piece black pinstripe suits to his club on days when he had meetings in Whitehall.

            Once Greg would have felt ashamed to be seen wearing jeans around such a man, but not anymore. Besides, if he’d worn the strange breeches or jodhpurs or whatever they were called, he knew he’d never have had the nerve to mount a horse in front of Mycroft. Even knowing what Mycroft would be thinking as he stared at Greg’s arse. He was quite happy to slouch along in a thermal T-shirt one step up from underwear, and a grey wool blazer. Besides, Mycroft’s horse was enormous, and he could easily hide behind him if he needed to.

            “Hardly,” Mycroft said.

            “You bastard.”

            Mycroft gave him a nasty smile. “You were the one leering. It isn’t my fault if you forgot your transparent ruse to excuse undressing me on horseback.”

            Greg crumpled forward in his saddle, hiding his face in his hands. “This wasn’t my idea,” he said loudly over the sound of Mycroft’s laughter. “I would have been happy to spend the morning in bed.”

            “For a middle-aged man, your libido is gratifyingly constant, and yet even you need a respite to rebuild the appetite.”

            Greg had to laugh in spite of everything. “So what _did_ I ask?”

            “If I was cold.”

            “I stand by my question.”

            “What you are unaware of is how much work I am doing.”

            Greg raised his eyebrows and risked a long look at Mycroft. “What, really?”

            Mycroft nodded. “Fortinbras is more of a handful than Marquis. I’m working rather hard to hold him back.”

            Greg snorted. “So what’s that take?”

            “Working his mouth, a lot of what you’d call non-verbal queues.”

            “I haven’t seen you use your whip yet.”

            “He knows I have it, though,” Mycroft said quickly. “Or I might not still be here.”

            “I kind of want to see what you mean, but I’d rather he cut loose on someone I didn’t like.”

            “Sherlock can ride,” Mycroft said with a half-laugh. “And no, no-one is allowed on him unless they can control him.”

            “Well, can you let him tire himself out a bit? Would that help?”

            Mycroft glanced at him and took a firmer grip on his reins. “It might. You would be left alone for a bit, though. Would you mind that?”

            Greg shrugged. “Will it give mine any funny ideas?”

            Mycroft looked down at Greg’s horse. “Keep a tight hold on your reins, keep your heels down, and hold on tight with your legs. If he does pick up, you’ll naturally clench everything which is going to tell him to stop. I’ll keep us in this field, and keep an eye out. We’ll stay in sight.”

            Greg nodded, shifting the reins in his own hands, gathering them closer. “Right. I’m looking forward to watching this, I admit.”

            Mycroft nodded at him tightly, and relaxed. It was barely noticeable, but that may have been because his horse felt it, pulled his weight back onto his hind legs, and bounced forward. He saw Mycroft stand in the stirrups and almost shouted after him, but realised it had been intentional. Fortinbras skittered all over the path, sometimes nearly sideways, and then, apparently trusting that he wasn’t going to be held back, aimed himself straight ahead and bolted.

            Marquis had lifted his head, his ears flicking forward, then one swivelling back toward Greg. “Nope, that’s not us,” Greg said quietly, and reached down carefully to pat his horse’s dappled grey neck. “I’m choosing to believe he paired us because you’re far more sensible, but if I find out it’s because our colours match, he’ll be getting far worse than a bruised arse.”

            Just before a bend in the road would have taken them out of sight, Fortinbras leaned to one side and finally turned, slowing from a full-on run to something Greg could recognise as a gallop. Mycroft’s long legs made the stallion seem a more normal size now that they were some distance away, and he seemed remarkably smooth in the saddle. Greg watched them turn back, galloping back the way they’d come on, the other side of the field. Without realising he was doing it, he had Marquis stopped on the path and turned around to watch. Mycroft was rising and falling smoothly, and yet every time he came down, Greg was half sure that he would be toppling off the side. He didn’t know why; Mycroft clearly knew what he was doing, and while Greg had seen him do things he wasn’t good at, none of them were very public, or anything like this kind of physically dangerous.

            When they reached the fence, Mycroft turned the horse around again, and he began picking up speed. Mycroft’s head turned toward him briefly, too fast for Greg to even wave, and then they were passing him again, Fortinbras driving his hooves into the ground as if it were some kind of threat to be beaten down. Clods of dirt were being flung up behind them, some of them hitting the horse’s stomach. It clearly didn’t bother him. The horse shook his head and slowed a little, then plunged ahead again.

            They were barrelling toward the opposite end again and Greg turned Marquis back down the path. This time, Fortinbras wasn’t slowing, and he wasn’t turning. Greg found himself holding his breath for the last few strides before Mycroft sat back and hauled on the right rein, yanking Fortinbras around in a circle so tight his back legs barely moved. It looked like he was about to rear, but instead pranced his legs sideways. Mycroft turned him around a full turn and a half before he let the horse have enough rein to straighten out, and he let the horse lope back to Greg on the road, tossing his mane and shaking his head most of the way.

            “Was that as terrifying as it looked?” Greg called as soon as he thought Mycroft might hear him.

            “No,” Mycroft answered, but Greg could hear that he was out of breath. “He wanted to take the jump, but it’s been too many years for me to try anything that high.”

            Greg waited until they were side by side again. “Really? How do you stop a horse going over a fence?”

            “Balance, mostly. Four legs are only steady if they’re all on the ground at once.” Mycroft swallowed and wiped a hand across his face.

            Greg looked at him more closely. His hair was no longer perfectly sleek, but it wasn’t a mess, either. His tie bulged slightly above his waistcoat, his shirt was a little looser at his waist and behind his tie. Greg could see the sleeves move now, flattening slightly in the front as they moved on at a brisker walk than before. “And you still didn’t break a sweat.”

            Mycroft glanced at him, switching his riding crop to his other hand. “I’m saving myself for this evening.”

            “What if I were looking forward to something a little sooner?”

            “I shall teach you to trot.”


End file.
